


Being a Brief Summary of the Changes in Camp Dragonhead After The Dragonsong War, and A Personal Triumph

by lilithqueen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, FUTURE FIC I AM VERY CLEAR ON THIS, Future Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Okay I Know But Just Hear Me Out Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Honoroit, age 14, thought his lord impetuous, presumptuous, and insufferable, but essentially good-hearted.Honoroit, age 19, has developed much deeper feelings. Feelings which his lord Emmanellain (now grown diligent, responsible, even knightly) must never know of, for surely he would be horrified. His lord only thinks of him as a brother, right? Right. A nice long stay at Camp Cloudtop will surely get rid of this stupid crush.(Emmanellain's feelings towards him have not beenbrotherlyfor months. And Honoroit must never know, for surely he would be horrified. His young manservant only thinks of him as a brother...right?)Absence makes the heart grow fonder. In Honoroit's case, it also makes him bolder.





	Being a Brief Summary of the Changes in Camp Dragonhead After The Dragonsong War, and A Personal Triumph

**Author's Note:**

> okay okay I KNOW but also hear me out
> 
> just imagine emmanellain and honoroit's relationship changing and evolving through the years, as emm grows into his new role and honoroit grows up. imagine honoroit getting tall and handsome and emm noticing and hating himself for noticing, because he _loves_ him and doesn't want to hurt him. imagine honoroit getting an absolutely massive crush on the good guy his fuckboy lord's turned into.
> 
> ...imagine it ending with love and adoration.

Honoroit Banlardois, age nineteen, had a problem. Or rather, had _been having_ a problem for a good year and a half now.

_My lord Emmanellain is far too handsome for his own good._

Of course, Emmanellain had always been well-featured (a realization that had, frankly, struck around the same time puberty did and with much the same unpleasant swiftness); if that had been the only thing tormenting Honoroit, it would have been possible to ignore it. He liked dark hair and blue eyes _anyway_ , regardless of whether they were attached to a smirking Dzemael (in retrospect not one of his best decisions, though the final resolution had been _glorious_ ) or his own liege lord.

No, the problem was that his lord had grown to be not only handsome, but diligent and responsible as well. In the five years he’d been running Camp Dragonhead, Honoroit had barely needed to chide him to stay on task; he’d taken to his work and his training with good cheer. He no longer wilted under the weight of his armor; on the rare occasion they saw battle, Honoroit had had a wonderful vantage point with the other archers to watch him charge into the fray. The younger soldiers of the camp vocally admired him, even after his initiative of recruiting select parties of Ixal into the camp to fight Garuda with the Ishgardians had deprived them of chances for martial glory.

...Which was another problem. Honoroit had been the recipient of more elbows and sidelong glances than he cared to focus on, usually with accompanying salacious comments on Emmanellain’s solidly muscular build and what he might look like under the armor (armor which Honoroit had, in fact, helped him don, with trembling fingers he was sure Emmanellain hadn’t noticed). It had been all he could do to bite his tongue on _very fine, thank you, if you ask nicely you might get to find out_.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the underside of the canopied bed Emmanellain had insisted on purchasing for him when the growing pains had been particularly horrible, and sighed. His lord certainly had taken a few casual lovers, but Honoroit was almost, _almost_ sure he’d never take one of his own soldiers to bed.

 _And if he would not do such things with a soldier, I certainly don’t have a chance. He will never think of me as anything but a little brother._ He bit his lip, remembering the winter the year prior.

_Honoroit was sick. He’d thought he was fine, perfectly healthy aside from a headache and the sort of cough everyone got in winter—but then he’d stood up too quickly from his desk, and his legs had folded under him. Vision dim and wavery, he was suddenly acutely conscious of strong arms scooping him up off the floor, and his lord’s voice calling for a chirurgeon._

_Time moved like syrup. There was darkness, warm blankets, a cool cloth across his brow. Soup was a distinct presence in his diet. Voices talked around him, words like “chest catarrh” and “contagious.” He ignored them. After a while, they faded away._

_There was brightness, but his eyelids felt like lead. Emmanellain’s voice was a faraway rumble; as if in a dream, he felt something warm and soft pressed to the slanting scar on his temple._

That had been _embarrassing_. Even the discovery that, growth spurt or no, Emmanellain was still capable of picking him up had not been worth the indignity of fainting in front of him. And his lord had been heartbreakingly sweet to him while he’d recovered, rubbing his back when he’d coughed and cajoling him to drink more soup. It had been the closest thing to pure torture he’d ever experienced. _Honoroit, you’re so flushed, are you sure you ought to be up? Well, yes, my lord, because when you smile at me like that I want to kiss you, and if I think about it too much I shall go mad._ And he’d been under watch nearly constantly, with precious little time to tend to the more physical evidence of how much he wanted him. At least Emmanellain hadn’t noticed that, or he would have had to actually die of humiliation.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. _Enough of this. I need to be grateful for what I have. Maybe by the time I get back from my tour in Camp Cloudtop, I’ll have moved past this...this useless crush. My lord will probably be glad to see me go._

Not that they weren’t still close, but...Emmanellain _had_ been strange lately, quiet and distant. At first Honoroit had half-wondered if he’d given offense; now, he found himself battling the nasty little voice in the back of his mind whispering that somehow, his lord knew. _Ridiculous. I’ve been so careful. But...the distance will help, at least for a while._

 

&

 

 _Gods, I miss him. How am I supposed to survive another three months?_ Things just weren’t the same without Honoroit around. Absent his clever sarcasm, Emmanellain’s life felt flat. Corentiaux and Yaelle could do his job, yes, but that didn’t make them fit replacements. They were diligent enough, but they’d never accompany their reports with sharp little reminders to _not_ fall asleep in the middle of writing replies, or snicker at him when he woke up with ink on his face. Laniaitte’s suggestion had seemed like such a good idea at the time—send Honoroit to Cloudtop, where he’d improve his archery and very possibly get a promotion out of the deal. It would be a step up from only being Emm’s manservant, and the gods knew he deserved it. But it had been three months without the sight of his sharp, clever smile, and the space he’d left behind in the fabric of Emmanellain’s life felt like a yawning abyss.

“Ah, my lord? The, ah...the reports you asked for, about the stable ledgers.”

The stablehand looked mildly terrified, which only stoked a feeling of irritation in the back of Emmanellain’s mind. _Really, I might have once glared at him a time or two, but if he would continue making Honoroit flustered I think I was justified in being a bit put out._ “Thank you, ah—Raitmeaux, wasn’t it?”

“Y-yes, my lord.” Hesitantly, he added, “Also, you’ve a letter from Camp Cloudtop--”

  
“Give it here!” Emmanellain nearly lunged for it, scanning the handwriting—yes, it was from Honoroit, and something in his chest unknotted at the sight. _Thank Halone._ He broke the seal with suddenly shaking fingers, sighing in relief at the salutation.

_My lord Emmanellain, I continue well..._

“...When will he be back, did he say?” Raitmeaux sounded distinctly hopeful.

 _Ah, yes, another admirer. He’s not the only one…_ All of a sudden, Emmanellain badly wanted to be alone. “In three months and a day. Run along, now.” He didn’t look up to see if the stablehand actually left; Honoroit’s letter took precedence. _He’s safe there. He has friends, he isn’t being mistreated, thank the gods, or I’d be there on the next airship--_

The memory brought his hackles up. Regardless of his personal feelings regarding Honoroit’s choices of companions (one or two had actually made the dear boy _cry_ when it had ended, which was _unacceptable_ ), he could grudgingly admit that they hadn’t been awful people. Jeanremy de Dzemael had been the exception; he’d always rubbed him the wrong way, but it hadn’t really boiled over into hatred until they’d met at a tourney a few weeks after Honoroit had broken it off with the man. _I do believe he was trying to bond with me, man to man, but that vile language…_

“ _Oh, he’s a pretty little thing, isn’t he?”_

Certainly not little anymore, Honoroit was as tall as him and nearly as broad in the shoulders thanks to long hours of practice with the bow. But Jeanremy had been leering in a most ungentlemanly fashion, and it had been infuriating. He’d requested for him to stop—reasonably politely, even!--but the Dzemael had only smirked and asked if he was only jealous because _he_ hadn’t gotten Honoroit into bed yet.

“ _I’m surprised, he was more than happy to get on his knees when ord--”_

Artoirel had been furious when he’d heard—they needed the Dzemaels as allies, after all, if they were to defend Ishgard—but Emmanellain still couldn’t bring himself to feel bad. Punching Jeanremy in the face had just been so _satisfying_ , even more so when Honoroit had thanked him for defending his honor (with, he was almost sure, no sarcasm at all). Still, Jeanremy’s words slithered uncomfortably clearly through his mind. How lovely Honoroit was, how much he’d liked it, how if Emmanellain _asked_ he could probably _find out_ \--

He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling at the sick feeling of guilty arousal in his gut. _I know that, already. I know how he sounds, I’ve heard._ It had been when Honoroit had been dating—what had the man’s name been, Bertennant? Something like that. And he really hadn’t meant to overhear, but they’d been in the stables of all places; he’d had a moment to think _really?_ before the first delicious moan had reached his ears, and then he hadn’t dared move. He’d only been able to stand there, achingly hard in his breeches, as Honoroit’s shaky little cries and gasps of _yes_ and _harder_ and _don’t stop_ built to a shuddering series of gasps before trailing off into a low, satisfied murmur.

Even the memory was enough to make him hard again. He stared at his desk without seeing it, his mind’s eye turning inward to half-formed imaginings—how far Honoroit’s freckles extended, how it would sound when his breath caught around _his_ name. _Fury strike me down_ _for this...indecency_ _. 'Tis as well for you that you’re in Cloudtop, Honoroit. If you saw the way my thoughts have turned_ _this past year_ _…_

He’d hate him. He’d be horrified and disgusted, as well he should be, and then he’d _leave_ and Emmanellain wouldn’t even have his friendship. _And...he’s my dearest friend. Regardless of age, or station...he is the best friend I have in the world, and I cannot—will not—see that end over my misplaced lust._ He took a slow breath, letting it out in a sigh as he brought his fingers to his lips. When Honoroit had fallen ill that winter, he’d dared a kiss to his forehead, tracing the scar he’d caused. He’d take no more liberties than that. _I promised him that I would never let anything harm him. Especially me._

 

&

 

The sky was bright blue and clear as glass when the airship from Camp Cloudtop touched down at Dragonhead. Honoroit took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold air. _Finally home. By the Fury, I missed this place._ Not that his sojourn in the Sea of Clouds hadn’t been enlightening—he’d had some small but thrilling roles in raids on the Vundu crystal stockpiles, and Laniaitte had very nearly begged him to take a permanent position there—but it just wasn’t home.

“Ready to disembark, you are?” He couldn’t tell whether the Ixali helmsman was smiling or not, but she certainly sounded happy.

He hefted his satchel and nodded, bracing himself against the railing as the ship docked. As the gangplank lowered, he blinked in surprise; it looked as though half the camp had turned out to welcome him back.

Emmanellain was in the forefront, beaming. “Honoroit! Welcome home.”

Time away from him had not, contrary to his expectations, lessened his feelings at _all_. He’d thought it would, even though his heart leapt with each letter, but that had clearly been a false hope. Despite the chill in the air, Honoroit felt his face heat as he approached. His lord looked every inch the commander in his plate armor, with a heavy fur cloak thrown around him to keep the cold out. He knew without having to touch that it would be very soft, that if he wanted he could very probably run up to him, wrap his arms around him, and lean in. _Would he let me? I think he’d let me, and if I did it for selfish reasons no one would ever have to know…_

And...oh. _Oh_. He was at arm’s reach now and Emmanellain was still staring at him, eyes soft and wondering as though he really hadn’t expected to see him standing there. He couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad to be home, my lord.”

Emmanellain’s bright smile suddenly didn’t seem to reach his eyes, but he still sounded thrilled to see him. “You must eat with all of us tonight, tell us all about your time there—I’m quite surprised Lady Laniaitte didn’t try to keep you longer! Come, let’s get your things put away, and you can have the afternoon to yourself before dinner.”

Dinner was...strange. Oh, the food was the same as he remembered it, and the other members of the camp crowded around him as though he’d never been away, but he was sure he felt Emmanellain’s eyes on him as he talked and ate. Once he lifted his head to find his lord watching him with an odd expression, only to flinch and stare down at his plate when their eyes met—and then the conversation topic shifted, and he was back to his usual effervescent self. Frowning, Honoroit poured himself another glass of wine.

Eventually all the courses were cleared away, and they got up to make their slow way back to their respective chambers. When they left the dining hall, heavy oak doors swinging shut behind them, Emmanellain paused and—shocking Honoroit down to his bones—laid a hand on his arm. His tone was light enough, but his voice was carefully quiet as he asked, “Whyever _didn't_ you stay at Cloudtop, anyway? You seemed to enjoy the work there, and you certainly would have risen higher than you could here.”

He took a slow breath, daring to meet his gaze. _I could have. I could have come home as very nearly your equal, but I...I could not bear for us to be apart._ His heart felt like it was hammering out of his chest, but he had to say it. He could deal with the consequences later. "...Well. I. My heart is _here_ , my lord. With you, always.” _Wait. He wouldn’t know a hint if it punched him in the face._ “Cloudtop doesn’t have the one I love.”

Emmanellain stood stock-still, staring at him, and Honoroit closed his eyes and prayed for the earth to swallow him up. _This is it. He’ll be disgusted, or he’ll make some joke so he doesn’t have to face it, or..._

“...Really?”

He sounded _terrified_. Hating himself, Honoroit nodded.

“Oh.” There was a half-hysterical giggle. “And here I thought—I hadn’t even dared let myself _think_ about you, I...”

 _Oh, gods._ He risked opening his eyes, gazing into Emmanellain’s face, and the utterly adoring expression he saw there made him decide, just once, to throw caution to the winds and take a step forward into his personal space. His gaze drifted to his parted lips as he breathed, “Action has ever been more your strong suit, Emmanellain.”

Emmanellain jolted, face crimson, but it seemed to spur him into action. Even as a warm hand came up to gently cup Honoroit’s cheek, however, he paused. Scant ilms separated their mouths as he murmured, “I don’t want to presume—of course we don’t have to, but—may I kiss you?”

In answer, he closed the distance between them. Emmanellain’s kisses proved to be gentle and sweet, more caresses than anything, but when Honoroit pulled him in close and made them deeper, rougher, he actually _moaned_. It spurred him on to press himself bodily against him, feeling more than hearing it when Emmanellain’s back pressed firmly against the door. _Yes_ , he thought, _good_.

When Emmanellain pulled away to breathe, it was with a shaky murmur of “Never did I think...” Exactly what he’d never thought would clearly have to wait; overwhelmed, he opted for kissing Honoroit again, and now his mouth left his to trail over his jaw and the base of his ear, teasing little points of pleasure that made him gasp and tilt his head back for more. When fingers came to fumble at the base of his throat, pulling his collar aside to lavish attention on his neck, Honoroit had to fight the urge to simply give himself up to the slow pulse of lust.

He had plenty of incentive to _act_ , after all. Emmanellain’s body was flush against his own; he rolled his hips, revelling in the indrawn breath it produced. “Gods, I’ve wanted you for _so_ long, let me _touch_ you...” They were both wearing entirely too many layers, but when he slid a hand up Emmanellain’s thigh his entire body shuddered. Honoroit bit back a moan, feeling how deliciously hard and hot he was against his own cock. Gods, this was going to be _incredible_.

Wait. Emmanellain was pulling away, hands going from fisted in the back of his coat to resting carefully on his hips. His voice was ragged and a little shaky, though his eyes were still hazy with desire. “Ah, can we—do you want to take it slow? I don’t want this to be a regret for you--”

“ _Emmanellain_.” He took a deep breath, deliberately sliding his hand over the bulge in his lover’s trousers. “I assure you, I’ll only regret what we _don’t_ do.”

He shuddered, rocking against his touch, and briefly closed his eyes as if to steel himself. When he met Honoroit’s gaze, it was with a wild little smile. “My rooms, then.”

You couldn’t run on stone floors without making a racket, not in the boots they wore, but Honoroit could certainly walk very quickly. No sooner was he in Emmanellain’s spacious chambers then the man was kissing him again, one hand sliding into his hair and caressing the edge of his ear in a way that made it very hard to think. “Ahhh...we need--oil.”

Emmanellain wrenched himself away, almost crashing into the bed in his haste. “We need to get these damned clothes off--”

He made short work of his own clothes; by the time he was down to his shirt and trousers, Emmanellain had just shed his tall boots. Watching Emmanellain fling his coat and waistcoat to the floor was entertaining, but _far_ too slow for Honoroit’s taste—though it did bring to mind a particular fantasy. “...Hmmm.” When he made to rise from his seat at the edge of the bed to peel his trousers off, Honoroit stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, here, let me.”

Emmanellain’s cock strained at the front of his trousers; when Honoroit knelt to nuzzle at it through the fabric, his breath hitched. “Nnh, Honoroit, you don’t have to--”

His fingers made short work of the buttons between him and his prize, and he couldn’t help but lick his lips at the thick, hard cock in front of him. Still, he glanced up through his lashes to gauge Emmanellain’s reaction. “I want to serve you in _this_ , too. May I?” At Emmanellain’s hasty nod, he bent his head to take him into his mouth.

The hard flesh on his tongue tasted of bitter salt, but Emmanellain’s shaky, loud moan encouraged him to keep going. He couldn’t fit it all in his mouth at this angle; that didn’t matter, though, when Emm’s hand caressing his ears motivated him to suck hard and slide his hands between his legs to fondle the sensitive spots denied by his mouth. His own cock throbbed, but he let it alone; first came his lover’s pleasure.

He could taste how close Emmanellain was in the back of his throat; when he tugged lightly on Honoroit’s hair, urging him away, his voice almost broke. “Oh, sweet gods, Honoroit—if you keep going...”

He lifted his head, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm, and very nearly came untouched at the sight of Emmanellain looking so flushed and wrecked. _Fury help me, this man is irresistible._ A gentle nudge, and he fell back on the bed; Honoroit followed him, straddling his hips in a way that trapped their cocks between them. “Mm, and I don’t want that just yet.”

Emmanellain tilted his head up to steal a heated kiss, hands sliding up his back to untuck his shirt. Honoroit shivered, both from the unexpected warmth of his calloused hands and from the following kiss to his collarbone as Emmanellain whispered, “I’ll give you anything, I swear. _Whatever_ you want. I only want to please you...”

“...Fuck me. Please.” Honoroit writhed pointedly in his lap; that thick cock would feel _so good_ in him. Emmanellain would be too careful, probably, but that was alright; they could always go satisfyingly hard later.

Emmanellain groaned at the friction, arching against him—but then, apparently, Honoroit’s words filtered through, and he went crimson all the way to his ears. “I. Uh. Are you _sure_? I mean, I don’t want to hurt you--”

“Do you have any idea,” he breathed, “exactly how many times I’ve came to the mere thought of you pounding me into the mattress? Or bending me over your desk, fucking me so hard I can’t even walk straight?” A wild impulse took him, and he smirked. “I assure you I wasn’t discussing Fifth Astral Era poetry with that Dzemael.”

Emmanellain growled, pulling him into another kiss. “That bloody bastard didn’t appreciate you, you ought to be treated like a prince...” He trailed off with a sigh as Honoroit unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, caressing firm muscles; as his own hands went to Honoroit’s waistband, he murmured teasingly, “On that note, beloved, allow me to undress you?”

It took some rather undignified wriggling and at least one accidental point of contact between foot (Honoroit’s) and shin (Emmanellain’s) but soon Emmanellain was fully, gloriously naked and sliding a hand down Honoroit’s stomach. He arched into the touch, letting his head fall back onto the pillow as his lover trailed kisses over his neck. The faint pressure of teeth at his collarbone, barely a nibble, made him gasp and jolt. “Ah, Emm...”

And then Emmanellain was shifting his weight, long hair tickling his chest as he divested him of his smallclothes. The chuckle that reached his ears was positively delighted; he even briefly stopped his thorough exploration of Honoroit’s throat to exclaim, “Why, you’re freckled _everywhere_.”

Honoroit spared a note of thanks to Menphina for a full moon and plenty of light to see by. “Do you like—ah, that tickles! Hey!” Fingers danced feather-light over his ribs, maddening, and he couldn’t hold back a giggle—and then that hand slid down over his stomach to the base of his cock, and his laughter turned to a low moan swallowed by Emmanellain’s kiss.

When he pulled away, his eyes shone with heated affection. “Mmm, you sound so sweet.” He took Honoroit in hand slowly, pulling another moan from him with the hot caress of his palm. “Do you still want me to…?”

Honoroit sucked in a shaky breath. _Gods, after so much time, finally…_ “ _Yes_.”

Oil was produced from a jar in the nightstand; Emmanellain left it open within easy reach as he settled himself between Honoroit’s thighs and slid one slick finger into him. Honoroit’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head as he arched for a better angle; he couldn’t quite find it, but the stretch was still enough to make him moan.

Emmanellain bent to kiss his throat, mouthing over a spot that seemed to send tingles of pleasure straight to his cock. His voice sounded very nearly smug. “Louder, I want to make you _sing_.”

Honoroit let out his breath in a shaky huff, giving his lover’s hair a reproving tug. “Someone will hear us—oh!” Emmanellain had shifted the angle of his wrist minutely, just enough to slide firmly over his prostate, and his world narrowed down to nothing but that shock of pleasure. He writhed, searching for more; some part of his remaining faculties warned him not to pull Emmanellain’s hair too hard, and his fingers wound up digging into the back of his neck instead. “Ah, there, do that again, please!”

“I don’t care if the entire damned garrison hears us.” Oh, that was a very interesting growl, almost possessive. It was worth further examination—but then Emmanellain was doing exactly what he asked, and all thought vanished again. “Was that good? More?” At his frantic nod, he lunged for the jar—more oil, a second finger joining the first, and all Honoroit could do was grab at his shoulders and roll his hips into that wonderful hand.

He had the brief, fleeting thought that he could certainly come just like this, with Emmanellain’s fingers buried in him to the knuckle--but then Emmanellain shifted, pressing his still-very-hard cock to his thigh, and he was filled with the need to know what it would feel like in him. “Ah, gods, Emmanellain, _please_...”

Emmanellain was peppering his skin with kisses, working him open methodically; his pleading was almost interrupted by a rough, passionate kiss. “By the Fury, when you say my name like that...” Frustratingly, his pace didn’t increase. “Are you sure this is enough?”

“ _Gods_. Yes, yes yes _yes_ please fuck me, don’t tease...” And then Emmanellain shifted forward, replacing his fingers with his cock, and _oh_ that was perfect. He was still tight enough for it to be a definite stretch, but they’d used so much oil that all Honoroit had to do was enjoy the feeling of being finally, deliciously full. He arched, nails raking down Emmanellain’s back as he wrapped his legs around his waist; he felt near to spending and Emmanellain hadn’t even started _moving_ yet..

His lover’s voice came out in a rough, shaky breath; when Honoroit locked eyes with him, he saw that his were suspiciously damp. “I love you.”

 _Oh, Emmanellain…_ He smiled up at him, reaching up to smooth his hair out of his eyes. “I love you too, but you told me you were going to appreciate me properly...”

“Mm.” Oh, Emmanellain sounded _smug_. “I plan to.”

And then he was bracing himself with a hand on the bed, hips rocking slow but satisfyingly hard. It was good, but not enough; Honoroit gasped, moving with it, and breathed, “Ah, like that—gods, but _faster_!” _More. I want—by the_ _Fury, I want…_

But then Emmanellain proved himself to be not only an ardent lover but an obedient one; “faster” drove all thoughts out of Honoroit’s head that weren’t _more_ and _harder_ and _Emmanellain_. He was kissing him as he moved, answering Honoroit’s gasps and moans with his own murmurs of filthy praise. Any other time, Honoroit might have blushed; now, when Emmanellain’s hand on his cock was accompanied by a purr of “You take me so _beautifully_ ,” it only made him arch and keen into his grip.

From somewhere, he found enough voice to warn him. “Emmanellain—Emm, I’m not going to last if you--”

“ _Good_.” It was nearly a growl as he picked up the pace, stroking him firmly more or less in time with his thrusts. “Come for me, darling, I want to feel you...”

The pleasure was only building, a dizzying spiral urging him to new heights; a few more thrusts and a wicked ripple of Emmanellain’s fingers, and he was spilling over his hand with a shuddering moan. Emmanellain fucked him through it, hard snaps of his hips, and then he was kissing him ferociously as he followed him over that edge.

For long moments afterwards, neither of them moved. Finally Emmanellain curled around him, kissing his shoulder, and sighed.

Honoroit shuddered, rolling his hips as Emmanellain slid out of him. He was tired, sticky, and truthfully a little sore, but none of that really seemed to matter as his lover pulled him close. “Mm...”

Emmanellain nuzzled at him, pressing a soft openmouthed kiss to his jaw. “Are you alright, my dear? I wasn’t too rough?”

He shifted, slowly twining their legs together. “Incredible. _You_ were perfect.” And then he sighed. “I should clean up…”

As he moved to do just that, however, Emmanellain stopped him. “I’ll handle all this mess; you just rest, love.” He flashed him a tired smile, eyes shining. “I certainly don’t plan on throwing you out!”

He heaved a sigh. Really, his lord was a puppy in elezen form. “...You should. The damage it could do to our reputations—to yours, especially. Your lord brother would be enraged...mmm...” He lifted his hips at Emmanellain’s prompting, squirming a little as the cloth soaked up the mess that had dripped down his thighs.

Emmanellain fell quiet, tossing the cloth into a wastebasket; when he turned back to Honoroit, stretching out on his side next to him, his eyes were dark and serious. “I _meant_ it, you know, when I said I loved you. I’ll never allow harm to come to you—to _us_. I can be discreet, if you think it best.” As he stroked Honoroit’s hair, he added, “’Tis a cold night. It’s not so uncommon to share a bed for warmth, is it?”

Honoroit let his eyes drift shut. Suddenly, they felt like lead. _For tonight. For tonight, I’ll stay, and…_ “...Tomorrow we _must_ discuss this, my lord. And if we’re to use that excuse, _you_ need to pick up our clothes.”

The weight on Emmanellain’s side of the bed vanished, and cloth rustled; when it returned, it brought with it Emmanellain’s solid warmth and the weight of their blankets. Emmanellain sounded distinctly fond. “As you command, ser. Will that be all?”

“Mmm...” If Honoroit adjusted himself like so, he could sleep with his head tucked into Emmanellain’s chest. It was good. “Mm-hmm. Good night, Emmanellain...”

“...Good night, beloved.”


End file.
